


Veronica's New Normal

by cheshirecatstrut



Category: Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Humor, Frenemies, Post-Season/Series 01 AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-02 12:01:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12726273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheshirecatstrut/pseuds/cheshirecatstrut
Summary: Veronica's determined to work a normal job and have a normal life, post-season 1. Unfortunately, Logan won't cooperate.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This fic's for the VM Rewatch crew, because we brainstormed the plot together one very silly evening. It's a little one-upsmanship and a lot of ridiculousness, I hope you guys enjoy!!

CHAPTER ONE

Veronica smooths down the starting-to-wrinkle lapels of her shiny polyester vest, slumps onto a stool by the coffee bar, and rests her chin glumly in her hand. It’s week two of her age-appropriate, back-to-normal job at Java the Hut, and three o’clock, the slow-business part of the day. And she is, not to put too fine a point on it, bored out of her fucking mind.

At eleven, once the morning pre-work coffee rush petered out, she cleaned under every cake plate in the display case, and filled all the napkin dispensers in the joint. At one, after the few rushed-lunchers stopped by for snacks and supplemental caffeine, she climbed on top of the banquette and dusted the light fixtures. Now, there still aren’t any customers and she’s already done the crossword. She’d almost be glad if Dick and Casey showed, stoned out of their minds, to eat cake and insult her for breaking their friend’s heart. At least verbally eviscerating someone would end the tedium.

Normal isn’t as satisfying as she imagined, when she planned her murder-solved, reputation-restored victory lap last year.

Stupid Logan and his stupid lamp-smashing vendettas. She could be making out with him in the XTerra right now on her lunch break, if he wasn’t such a self-destructive jerk.

Sighing, she locates her phone, traces her thumb over the text chain Duncan started two days ago-- ‘UR nu job—so cool, free coffee’. They’ve been talking lately, and it feels…nice. A bit like old times, simpler ones (although she can’t help wishing, in the throes of conversation, that Duncan himself were a little less…simple). If she texted him ‘U busy?’ he’d probably show, buy a latte, and hang out all afternoon. He’s done it on several occasions, which helped with her ennui.

Caressing the number keys, she plans a breezy comment, because it never pays to text spontaneously. Then the door smacks open and her idle wish comes true…sort of.

Dick, Casey, Bodie, Luke and Enbom swan in, clad in post-surf beach ensembles, gritty with sand. And behind them stalks the devil himself, murmuring slyly into his cellphone with a lurking grin. His shirt clings with residual damp in the most irritatingly distracting of ways.

Veronica straightens and pastes on her fakest smile, not wanting to be caught by this crew slacking. She’s about to bustle over to the hostess stand when her co-worker Sasha emerges from the stockroom, where she’s been flirting with the busboy. And excitedly grabs Veronica’s arm.

“It’s HIM!” she hisses. “Your BOYF…ex…guy you supposedly hate, whatever. You said he wouldn’t dare show his face, but LOOK, I was RIGHT! He misses you, so he DID!”

“To get COFFEE,” V mutters, turning the over-bright smile on Casey, who falters and takes an involuntary step back. The group approaches the counter warily, and she adds, just so there’s no misunderstanding, “That’s the ONLY reason. Look at him, whispering sweet nothings into his flip phone. No doubt making plans to screw some Hollywood groupie, then drink himself unconscious. Because for Logan Echolls, that’s just a Wednesday.”

“Oh, bull. I think he luuuuuurves you.” Sasha winks to punctuate the whispered taunt, before fleeing back to her busboy. Thus forcing Veronica to serve the Toxic Masculinity Squad, before they go Clockwork Orange on the furnishings.

“Well look who ran out of free rides,” Dick smarms, with a surreptitious glance at Logan to make sure he’s still occupied. “Work’s supposed to be fulfilling for the lower class, right? So making our frappucinos should be, like, a growth experience.”

“Is that what you want, Dick?” V asks, faux-sweetly, and his bluster falters. “A frappucino? With whipped cream and cinnamon, maybe? Double shot of caramel syrup?”

Casey snorts laughter, and Bodie says, “Just regular java for me, babes. And maybe some red velvet cake, that shit looks seriously AWESOME.”

“Coming right up!” she chirps, at her perkiest; Luke mouths “Same,” when she lifts her brows, and Casey holds up three fingers. She turns to Enbom, who says, “You know, I just want a Pellegrino.” Passes over Logan, who’s turned his back to murmur provocatively some more.

In silence, she fills cups while the guys laugh and shove, spill sand across the floor; she’s not even that upset, because sweeping, later, will keep her busy. Sets their drinks on the pass-through, calls “Order up!”—and turns to find Logan watching, cross-armed, amusement lighting his eyes.

“Veronica,” he says softly, gazing deep into her soul…the smile transfers to his mouth, kicking up one corner. She blinks, because this is an unfair tactic. He KNOWS what it does to her when he stares this way and murmurs her name!

Well, if he’s going to fight dirty…he’d better be prepared to LOSE.

“Logan.” She picks up a cloth, begins spuriously polishing the espresso machine. “How’s your August been? Burned down any good pools lately?”

His expression cycles through disappointed, blank, and jaded to mocking. “I can neither confirm nor deny. Espresso, please, quad. Also a slice of my favorite cake. And don’t bother pretending you forgot which one I love—we’ll both know you’re faking.”

“That’s where you’re wrong… I remember that cake well.” She tosses down her rag. “I used to love it too until I ate a spoiled slice, and spent two days barfing. Guess I learned MY lesson.”

“Hopefully, I’ll fare better.” Logan smirks. “I’ve got stamina, and I tend to bounce back.”

The guys don’t harass, surprisingly, or linger—just polish off their drinks and snacks, then leave in a noisy flurry. Veronica lurks behind the counter, awaiting an attack of sarcasm with which to engage. But only Bodie waves when they leave, and the clean-up lasts ten minutes. Then it’s back to mind-numbing boredom, until it’s five and she clocks out.

That night, she dreams of Logan walking away. She calls to him, tells him he’s an idiot for going when he clearly wants to stay. But he just keeps moving and pretends not to hear.

XXXXX

The next morning is Monday--so work starts off busy at seven, and there’s still a line out the door at nine. They’ve called in an extra barista, who was none too pleased to have her hangover sleep interrupted. Veronica, manning the register and snack case, is covered in a thin film of sweat. The air conditioner, vainly doing battle with the open door and crush of bodies, groans and sputters ominously, providing scant relief. V prays it doesn’t give out entirely before the end of her shift.

When she looks up from refilling the quarter tray, Logan’s standing in front of her, wearing a too-innocent expression to disguise an incipient smirk. He assesses her damp disarray, lifts skeptical brows. “Wow, I guess honest employment isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

“Wonderful,” she says, with a sigh, hands on hips. “Like today wasn’t unpleasant enough. What do you want this time? Strawberry tart, to match the delicate blush of my cheeks?”

“Sure,” he agrees, with an easy shrug. “Can you box it up? And can I also have one slice of every other item in the display case, individually packaged?”

She narrows her eyes, and he struggles to keep the smirk from manifesting. “Twenty servings of dessert, huh? You’ll ruin your girlish figure.”

“Veronica,” he says, going for ‘gently chiding’. “These are gifts for my summer school classmates, not a personal binge. You of all people should recognize the importance of a nutritious breakfast. Many of these guys are poor, it turns out, and don’t have the means to buy their own.” He fishes for his wallet, then pauses, much struck. “Actually, you know what? You should write the ingredients for each item on each box, too, in case someone’s got a food allergy. Having been on the receiving end of an epi-pen injection, I’m a firm believer in Safety First.”

She gives him a death glare, checks the still-expanding line--pastry boxes need to be assembled one by one. Makes the mistake of meeting Sasha’s eye. Sporting the world’s widest grin, her coworker mouths, _He LOVES you, he’s so CUTE!_ behind the insufficient shield of her hand.

“He certainly thinks so,” Veronica mutters, as she folds a container sulkily, bends to slice the German Chocolate Nutgasm. “And if the sentiment isn’t reciprocated, he’ll settle for ‘world’s biggest pain in the ass’. Are you SURE we don’t have any shrimp empanadas I can mislabel? Maybe unrefrigerated and starting to smell?”

Logan lounges in amused silence while she grumbles and slices, making no effort to banter. She wonders if he actually plans to curry favor with non-09’ers, or if they’ll end up in the nearest dumpster. Or in the empty fridge in his lonely mansion, maybe. After the Toombs/bridge fiasco, locals not in his idiot surf crew steer clear.

It depresses Veronica to think about him slouching around House Echolls, drinking day-old Slushee to thwart the paps in his driveway.  But he’s the one who drove her away. HE refused to stop his high-speed trip off the rails, even when guns and arson joined the mix.

The shittiness of this post-breakup summer is HIS fault, honestly. And he’s compounding it by yanking her chain…which, of course, means war.

She’s reached the sponge cakes on the bottom shelf when the hungover barista Rosalie screams, “Shit, it burns!” and staggers backwards, tripping over Veronica and landing hard. V straightens, searching for the source of chaos, and gets struck in the chest with hot coffee, which is spurting from the espresso machine in hissing pulses. Abandoning the soaked box in her grip, she identifies the problem as a mis-threaded filter; moves swiftly to rectify, since Sasha’s already grabbed the first-aid kit.

Logan beats her to it, reaching over the counter to deactivate the switch; then grabs a towel from atop and tosses it her direction. V makes a face, accepting. Dabs at the stain that’s not going anywhere without bleach, and reaches for another box.

“I have HAD it!” Rosalie yells, emerging from the back room where she’s likely been flushing her eyes. There’s a big red splotch on her cheek, and her short, dyed-pink hair’s standing up. “This is my DAY OFF, and I came in ANYWAY, and got a face full of COFFEE thanks to that stupid MACHINE! I have a DATE tonight! I fucking quit, Sasha. Tell ‘em to stick my last paycheck in the mail.”

She storms out, tossing her apron onto a customer’s breakfast, and Sasha eyes the espresso maker like it’s infernal and unknowable. Then Veronica, like she’s humanity’s last hope. “You know how to work the Breville, right?”

Veronica sighs, scribbles the last ingredients on the slice of cake she’s boxing, and heads over to the register with her list and two sacks. “Let me ring up the customer from hell, and I’ll fill in while you call replacements.”

“Hey, now,” Logan protests, as she hefts bags onto the counter and starts entering prices. “You already downgraded me once, from nemesis to no-good breaker of lamps and hearts. Lower my status again to ‘shitty customer’ and you might actually hurt my feelings.”

“Your hurt feelings--and the tantrums that follow--have caused enough trouble already,” Veronica says, extending his receipt in one hand, holding out the other for cash. “If you’d stuck to smoking weed and playing video games, instead of trying so hard to get shot, maybe you wouldn’t have broken ANYTHING.”

He blinks, blinks again. “Veronica Mars, future valedictorian, NOSTALGIC about the suit of a slacker pothead? I don’t buy it for a second--and I’m worried a heatstroke’s imminent.”

“In that case, scram. I can’t rubber-stamp tardiness to summer school.” She tosses the sacks at him, irritated by his attitude, and he has to scramble to catch them. “Who knows, maybe all these treats are a baby step towards you and the PCH’ers singing Kumbaya.”

“I wouldn’t hold my breath,” he says wryly, slapping a hundred into her palm and waving away change. “Word of advice—stand well back from the coffee machine, when you start making lattes. The steam is what got her, not the liquid, and it spurts out at the level of your face.”

Veronica sighs, eyeing the machine; checks the line, which has grown in the interim rather than shrinking. Watches him disappear through the door, then gets her ass in gear.

She’s careful to follow Logan’s directions after one lucky escape. Turns out, he’s absolutely right.

XXXXX

Sasha calls everyone on the list, but word’s gotten out about the defective machine—there’s not a replacement barista to be found in the greater Neptune area. So Veronica’s abruptly promoted from hostess/counter girl, with plans to teach others the ropes.

Time doesn’t permit on Tuesday morning, however, as once again, Java the Hut is swamped. V manages to avoid burns via diligent discipline as she steams and brews, aerates and whips. What she doesn’t manage to avoid is Logan Echolls; he shows up promptly at eight AM, suspiciously clean-shaven and holding a two-page list.

He waits in line so patiently she’s immediately wary. When he surrenders the list, then folds his hands on the counter and smiles with thinly-veiled expectancy, she’s sure this is some elaborate form of torture. She glances down, reads item #1 (large decaf soy-milk mocha latte with rice whip, cinnamon and chocolate sprinkles) and turns a look of loathing on him so intense he ought to catch fire.

“Your pastries were a hit,” Logan says, somehow blithely withstanding it. “But my classmate Bronn—you’d like him, he’s both poor AND sketchy—wisely pointed out a flaw. If I’m stopping by a coffee shop to bring breakfast items anyway…why not order beverages?”

“If you plan to show up every day and harass me,” she says, “you should let me know now, so I can have you banned.”

Logan tsks. “Veronica,” he says, piling on the smarm, “Don’t you think your coworkers might object? I’m bringing a LOT of business to this establishment, and yesterday I left a fifty-dollar tip.”

“When my dad threw you out of the house,” she mutters, “I wish he’d thrown you FARTHER.”

She begins on the first drink (of twenty), canted sideways to avoid the steam; Logan leans one elbow on the counter to better observe. “So explain this whole gainful-employment thing,” he says, helpfully pointing out the mocha flavor. “Since I’ve never, personally, tried it. Do you really need to show up EVERY morning, and stick around all day like…a captive?”

“Not all of us have trust funds.” She caps and plugs the drink, smacks it down with emphasis on the counter. “Or weekly allowances in the quadruple digits.”

“Pity.” He shifts into a more comfortable lean, weight balanced on one flexed forearm. “Must suck for the non-morning-person, and as I recall, that’s you. Bet you need a lot of caffeine to maintain this sunshiny disposition.”

“No time for chit-chat,” she croons, hunting down the almond milk and filling the blender with ice. “And frankly, no desire.”

“Clearly,” he says. “I’ve been banned from your house, and you won’t take my calls. Luckily, I need breakfast and you’ve got to make a buck, or our paths might never cross.”

Ugh. “Logan, I’ve made my position clear,” she warns, lining up the caffeinated slushee neatly beside Beverage One. “If you want to cut the brakes in your metaphorical car, then send it careening down a hill towards a wall, well, that’s your choice. But I don’t have to help, I don’t have to watch--and I definitely don’t have to flirt with you over lattes, just because you’re bored and a pariah.”

“Mmmm, very true.” He nods like he’s reflecting on her argument. “And yet, strangely, you keep right on doing so. It’s a riddle wrapped in a condundrum, Veronica.”

“This,” she gestures between them, “is NOT flirting. THIS is contempt. And maybe exasperation. And also, possibly, early-stage heatstroke.”

“Ah,” he says, and there’s that lurking smile again. “My mistake. Sometimes, with you, it’s hard to tell the difference.”

“Logan?” a voice calls from the entranceway. Veronica tears her gaze from his to watch Duncan bypass the line like it doesn’t matter, approaching with a puzzled grin. “What are you doing here, man? I thought…you two…”

He gestures between them, much as Veronica did, and Logan says, “I’M buying coffee from the only non-Starbucks establishment in town. And yourself?”

“Well, you know.” Duncan seems embarrassed by the pointed question. “Veronica gets bored around here because there’s nothing to do, so sometimes I show up to…keep her company.”

“How charitable,” Logan says, flatly. “Friends helping friends--which is interesting, because last I checked, the two of you weren’t. Maybe now’s not the time, though? Since she’s currently doing plenty?”

“Thanks to YOU,” Veronica mutters, evading the steam only because Logan catches her sleeve. He laughs, and Duncan’s expression of flustered consternation grows. “It was REALLY sweet of you to stop by,” she tells Duncan, adding an extra lash-flutter just to piss Logan off, “and normally I don’t agree with this hell spawn about ANYTHING…but I actually am too busy to hang out. Maybe text me later?”

“Sure,” Duncan says easily, making a ‘What?’ face in response to Logan’s measured stare. “Can I go ahead and get a large vanilla latte, though, while I’m here? To go?”

She looks down at the list, which still has eighteen items remaining--up at the queue, which now stretches into the hall. “Back of the line,” she says evenly. “I’ll be happy to help you after those already waiting get their turn.”

“Seriously?” Duncan seems to think she’s joking. “But Logan…”

“Stood patiently waiting for an hour,” Logan says, tracing a finger down item four and handing Veronica raspberry syrup. “Like a good boy. And now I get my reward.”

“Well, can’t you just add my coffee to your order, then?” Duncan demands, like he doesn’t get what the big deal is. “It’s only a vanilla latte, not…” he peeks at Logan’s paper, “a venti quad cinnamon spice coconut milk chai with whipped cream.”

“Oh, are we friends now?” Logan demands, with just a hint of temper. “The kind that buy each other things? I wasn’t sure, seeing as you stopped returning my calls in June.”

“Hey, can you hurry it up behind the counter?” a backwards baseball-cap wearing gym rat yells, halfway down the line. “We don’t have time for your little love triangle back here. We got coffee to buy and places to be.”

Veronica manages not to retort, starts brewing the next drink. She doubts Logan and Duncan even realize someone spoke.

“We were in NAPA,” Duncan snaps, with a ‘duh’ intonation. “Mom demanded family time. Everyone’s pretty on edge because of the whole…Lilly thing.”

“Yeah,” Logan says, flatly. “I’ve been on edge, too, what with the whole murder rap and all. Yet somehow, my phone still functions.”

“Oh come on,” Duncan says, exasperated. “You weren’t even charged, you’re blowing things out of proportion for no reason. All I’m asking for here is a stupid five-dollar coffee.”

“Why don’t you get Veronica to comp you one, then?” Logan wonders silkily, taking the milk carton she’s struggling with away and uncapping it. “Maybe she’ll share her perks, since the two of you are ‘friends’ again.”

He makes air quotes to punctuate, and Duncan’s affronted scowl deepens. The steroid-happy shit-stirrer down queue yells, “Jesus, isn’t anybody other than Susan Lucci making coffee? How long do I gotta wait for two fucking frappucinos?”

“Just one more minute,” Veronica calls, to shut him up. Turns on her visitors, flushed from steam and irritation. “I’m not giving anybody anything free…it would be an abuse of my employee discount. If Logan wants to buy your coffee, that’s up to him. But if not, back of the line, Kane. Pronto.”

Duncan throws up his hands, like everyone but him is massively unreasonable; Logan smirks. Veronica grabs a bottle of chai concentrate, shakes it vengefully…whereupon the cap flies off, and tea splatters everywhere. Great, now there’s a clean-up to handle, on top of everything else.

“Sasha!” she yells, and her co-worker emerges from the back room, lipstick smeared and hair mussed. Her eyes widen at the size of the line. “We’ve got a spill out here, grab the mop!”

V’s manager scurries for the supply closet, while Veronica kneels to wipe up the worst with a hand towel. From the depths of the café a male voice yells, “OK that’s IT! A MONKEY could do this job, and I’m sick of waiting!”

Then backwards baseball cap bounds over the counter as if he plans to make his own coffee, only to slip in spilled chai upon landing. He skids sideways, grabbing the espresso machine for balance, and the loose-threaded filter just set to ‘brew’ comes loose. Scalding steam hisses out, striking him right above the neckline of his muscle tank. He shrieks like an unholy creature of the night and staggers back.

“Jesus!” Logan murmurs as V yanks the guy out of range, winds ice into a clean dishtowel for the burn. Logan switches off the machine again and ducks under the pass-through to unscrew the mis-threaded filter, shouting, “Donut, call 911, this guy’s hurt. Veronica, you’ve got to hold this thing cupped in the palm of your hand, then shove STRAIGHT UP before twisting. Otherwise, it cants right and gaps.”

“If you know how to use the machine so well, YOU make coffee!” Veronica shouts back, peeking at the blisters forming on Steroid Boy’s waxed chest. She replaces the ice and hopes he’s not inclined to sue.

“Yeah!” Duncan calls, apparently still irate, phone to his ear. “Why don’t you do my latte first, since it’s so important to you it doesn’t come from Veronica?”

“I need ointment,” Gym Rat moans, wiping ineffectually at the coffee staining his track pants. “Like burn cream or something. What the hell is WRONG with this place?”

Veronica scrambles for the first-aid kit, as Logan ties an apron from the stack beneath the counter, and lets the soccer mom next in line order. “What’s going on up there?” a girl calls from somewhere beyond the counter. “Why’s that guy making his own drinks?”

“No clue, but I wish I could, too,” a male voice replies. “I’m already late for work, and I’ve got a meeting at ten.”

V’s “JUST BE PATIENT!” is drowned out by a general approving ruckus. Then the inevitable anarchist in the crowd shouts, “I think we should ALL serve ourselves!” flings the pass-through open, and storms behind the counter to raid the display case.

Chaos ensues. Rabble Rouser Number Two, a weedy skate punk in baggy jeans and a nose ring, starts throwing muffins and turnovers randomly into the crowd, assisted by two snickering friends. Logan abandons beverage-making to tackle him, and they fall sideways next to the cash register, punching and kicking. The crowd erupts into a frenzy, seemingly divided between fleeing with Logan’s coffees and restoring order.

Veronica slaps a bandage on Steroid Boy and grabs her purse, digging through in search of her Taser. She climbs onto the counter, notes Duncan’s still on the phone with 911 (albeit hiding beneath a two-top). Waves the sparking weapon and yells, “Get back in line or get out, unless you want fifty thousand volts and a trip to lockup!”

“What in the Sam Hill is going on?” Through the herd of crying kids, food-fighters, and caffeine-deprived office drones, Veronica spots Bart Mendoza, faux-cowboy, all-around cornball, and unfortunate owner of Java the Hut. His enormous grey mustache quivers with indignation as he surveys the carnage. “I heard there was a busted espresso machine, but nobody said nothing about a riot!” He moves closer, the crowd parting, Red-Sea-style, before him. “And why, may I ask, are you standing on a food service counter in dirty boots with a weapon? Much less giving pastries away for free?”

“They were like a zombie horde!” Veronica protests, guiltily lowering the Taser. “Rioting! That half-conscious skater and his greasy friends looted the case!”

Logan chooses this moment to pop upright, incipient shiner blooming. “Ohmigod!” a heavily-made-up twenty-something calls from behind the dessert cart, as he extends an abraded hand to help Veronica down. “Isn’t that Aaron Echolls’ son? The one who murdered all those bikers?”

Bart’s head swivels Logan’s direction, eyes narrowing. “That’s it, everybody out,” he says, tucking one thumb behind his rearing-bronco belt buckle as he gestures towards the door. “Sasha, get over there with free drink cards; y’all can come back tomorrow when the place is clean and choose the beverage of your choice.” His frown deepens as an EMS crew pushes through the forming line, but he steps aside to let them pass. “Veronica Mars, I expected better. You seem like a kid with a bright future, not the kind to let a handsome face lead you astray. I’ll need you to clear out your cubby…you’re done here.”

Logan opens his mouth to retort, then closes it with a minute head shake. Takes off the apron, throws it in  the basket near the EMT’s and Steroid boy—and with a look of apology at Veronica, leaves.

“Nobody leads me anywhere,” she says softly, watching him go. Turns back to Bart, jaw tautening. “But I’ll be happy to see the back of this place. My job was insanely dull, at least until yesterday.”

That night, when Dad gets home, she’s eating mac and cheese in front of House Hunters instead of filling out applications. The old college fund requires she maintain an income--but at the moment, she’s had all the employment she can stand.

He sashays in, overcoat draped on one arm and a large cardboard box under the other, smiling the way he always does when he realizes she’s here. “Sweetheart,” he says, setting everything on the table. Pauses to stretch away post-stakeout stiffness. “Why did I just find a cake on our porch? Don’t your friends know you were born in August?”

Setting the mac on a side table, Veronica wanders over to investigate. Opens the box and smiles down at the lemon raspberry chiffon--Logan’s favorite from Java the Hut, and coincidentally, hers. A note scribbled in pen across the lid reads, “Just in case you’re banned.”

“Any clue as to the identity of your pastry-chef-slash-secret-admirer?” Dad collects plates and a serving knife, along with sodas from the fridge. “We’re sure this isn’t poisoned, right?”

Veronica shrugs, the wrestling match that ensued post lamp-smash still vivid in her memory. But she cuts herself an extra-large piece, because no sense wasting dessert.


	2. Chapter Two

Veronica’s swiping an old man’s third tube of Lotrimin over the Wheatsville Grocery’s scanner, privately wondering what the hell, when Logan joins the queue two registers away.

He’s in stained jeans and a hoodie (hood up) red-eyed and significantly unshaven; the cart he’s pushing contains a case of Rolling Rock, a king-sized bottle of Gatorade, Nacho Cheese Doritos, and imported soap. At least he plans to bathe post binge, she thinks with a faint head shake, waiting for Mr. Obvious Fungal Issues to count out change. 

Reaching for a People magazine, Logan peruses it with a smirk—puts it back, and notices Veronica carefully-not-watching. In the periphery of her vision, she sees him do a double-take, then promptly switch lines.

“Logan,” she greets him as her customer shuffles away. He sets his purchases, theatrically, on the conveyor. “Taking excellent care of yourself as usual, I see.”

“Breakfast of champions.” He opens a pack of Reese’s, pops one into his mouth, and tosses the rest onto his pile. “You seem to have landed on your feet, as always. Glad you found a job that won’t scald you.”

She fake-laughs, scanning and neatly bagging the soap and junk food, then hits total and extends a palm. “That’ll be $24.97, please.”

“Um.” He cocks a tired eyebrow at the case of beer. “I hesitate to criticize your performance, but you forgot an item.”

“I’m not selling you that,” she says, held-out hand not wavering. “You’re underage. And by the looks of you, you’ve over-indulged already.”

“Au contraire.” He licks chocolate from his knuckle, removes his wallet from a back pocket, and displays a driver’s license dramatically between two fingers. “I have ID. I can prove my maturity to anyone with doubts.”

She waves the card away. “I MADE that ID,” she says. “I’m aware it’s excellent, but no dice. I lost eight days of college tuition before I landed this job, and I’m not getting fired for humoring you again.”

“Fine.” He tucks the offending item away. “I’ll just drink my late mother’s vodka. She’s got a lifetime supply stashed in the rec room, anyhow.”

“Fine,” Veronica retorts, accepting the hundred he hands her with a scowl. “On behalf of both myself and your liver, you’re making yet another asinine decision.”

She guts the register locating change, while he smirks and does nothing to help. Accepts the wad of tens and fives she hands him without comment. “What, besides drinking, would you suggest I do for entertainment? I had to sneak off my property in the Mimi’s delivery guy’s trunk this morning, just to surf with Dick—Access Hollywood has set up camp by the gate. I’m staying at his place tonight, but it’s not like I can hit clubs or parties without making the paper. And it’s not like anyone in the Casablancas household READS.”

Grabbing her purse from its spot beneath the register, Veronica digs out a battered copy of ‘Have Space Suit, Will Travel’ and slaps it against his chest. “Here,” she says. “I don’t know how you feel about Heinlein, but it’s got to be better than spending your early evening barfing.”

He looks down at the book, up at her, inscrutable. “Why, Veronica Mars. Could it be that Neptune’s former Princess of Perkiness is a closet geek?”

“Mac gave it to me,” she says, with an eye roll. “I’m more of a Chandler fan, myself, but I have to admit, it’s entertaining.”

“Well, it must be more fun than listening to Dick rant at length about the girls he wants to, but never will, bang.” Logan salutes here with the book, tucks it in his bag. “Is it applicable, in this job, to warn you about wooden nickels before I go? Because I feel like I should.”

She gives him the finger in reply. He laughs and leaves, chugging Gatorade.

XXXXX

The next day, Veronica finishes ringing up the two-cart order of a family of seven and discovers Logan’s in her line again. He sets microwave burritos and a six-pack of coke on the conveyor with a smile, looking like at least he got a decent night’s sleep.

“Your mother’s nutritionist just broke out in hives, without knowing exactly why,” she says, searching the box for a bar code.

His pleasant expression morphs into a smirk. “My mother’s idea of nutrition was eating nothing but lettuce. The food I choose might be crap, but at least it contains calories.”

He hands her another hundred; sticks his wallet between his teeth while she assesses the register’s contents, and removes the Heinlein from his hoodie pocket. Sets it on the check shelf while she calls her manager to make change.

“What did you think?” She gestures with the book to make her meaning clear. A quick examination shows he didn’t break the spine or fox the pages, so points to Logan for being a decent borrower.

He shrugs, hands in pockets. “DICK claims I’m an idiot for getting engrossed in this while his new stepmom modeled bikinis,” he says. “But I actually enjoyed it. Although I’ll never look at Pluto the same way again. Or cats.”

“DICK’S an idiot.” Veronica hauls out her messenger bag and tucks the paperback inside. “And his new stepmom looks faintly carnivorous. You’re better off sticking to literature.”

“Well if anyone would recognize an apex predator, it’s you.” He looks down at the new book she hands him with surprise. “What’s this? Another selection from the Veronica Mars Charity Lending Library?”

“My replacement novel,” she explains. “’Farewell My Lovely’, which I no longer need, since I’ve got this back. You’ll like it—it’s all about how Hollywood’s a hotbed of corruption and scam artists. There’s even a fake hypnotist.”

“Wow, I could have WRITTEN this,” he says, pocketing it, and cracks open a Coke.

Veronica’s manager, a weedy man in his sixties named Eugene--who despite his advanced age can’t cultivate a moustache thicker than pencil—appears at the end of the line, bank bag in hand. He removes a fifty so reluctantly it’s like he’s giving up his first-born, and barely waits until Logan’s left the building before pulling Veronica aside to lecture.

“You’re not supposed to accept bills larger than twenties for small purchases,” he hisses, as if this is a fundamental truth of the universe. “Didn’t you pay attention to the orientation video?”

“I don’t think he CARRIES anything smaller,” she protests, although in fact she wrote up invoices for MI throughout the presentation. “That guy may not look it, but he’s made of money.”

“Well don’t try it again.” Eugene’s lips thin, and he tugs compulsively on the bag’s zipper to make sure it’s closed. “Poor time management on the part of cashiers means fewer profits for the store. Send him to customer service for all non-critical transactions.”

“You’re the boss,” Veronica sighs, forbearing to mention Wheatsville’s practically deserted. Reflects that boring as Java the Hut was, pre-food-fight, at least her coworkers weren’t in dire need of therapy.

XXXXX

The following day, Logan shows up at the beginning of her shift, clutching a Big Gulp. Veronica frowns, because he’s cutting it close with summer-school start time--and she doubts he can afford more tardies, after the coffee-shop fiasco.

Tossing a pack of gum on the conveyor, he pulls the Chandler from his back pocket, and holds it up like a lawyer presenting Exhibit A. “I finished this last night,” he says as she scans, then trades her for the gum. “And there’s something I couldn’t figure out. Was it AMTHOR running the mental hospital where Marlowe ended up trapped? Because I know he was a mesmerist or whatever, but how did he have the power to get someone incarcerated?”

“He didn’t.” She totals his purchase while he tears the pack open and shoves a stick in his mouth. “The dirty cops locked Marlowe up so he’d stop investigating. They were in cahoots with Dr. Sonderborg, HE ran the hospital.”

“But I thought he just worked there so he could sell drugs?” Pulling out his wallet, Logan rifles through and extends a bill. “Like how did he have time to deal and see patients both?”

“Guess he was an efficient multitasker.” She takes his money, scowls as she notes it’s yet another hundred. “No way,” she says, handing it back. “You go to customer service for change, or you pay with a five. You got me in trouble yesterday, flinging cash around like Daddy Warbucks—I’m not holding up the line to call my manager, just so he can yell again.”

“But Veronica,” he protests, switching the gum to the other side of his mouth to better speak, “I don’t have a five. And I’m late for school. And I already opened the pack.”

“Your stupid rich kid antics are a desperate plea for attention--you know that, right?” She fishes in her front pocket, locates two of her own dollars, and sticks them in the till. “Go on to class before you get kicked out. And try paying attention to what things cost next time, like a normal person. I should NOT have to teach an almost-high-school-senior how to shop.”

“You’re an angel of mercy!” He flashes a cheesy grin, saluting her with the gum as he leaves. She growls down at her book, releasing pent-up angst.

XXXXX

It seems, for most of the next day, as if this contretemps has scared him off. She’s got the afternoon shift, and five o’clock passes with nary an overly-gelled jackass in sight.

The store’s almost empty, both because it’s Tuesday and because a cheaper chain grocery sits right across the street. Veronica devises a way to conceal the Chandler behind her register and surreptitiously read; she’s so engrossed she jerks in startlement when a nearby throat is cleared.

“Good, huh?” Logan quirks a brow, starts transferring items from his overflowing cart to the conveyor. Gestures with his chin at her hiding place. “I was up till three devouring it myself.”

“What’s all this?” she demands, peering past him at the slowly shrinking pile of goods. “Did you actually purchase uncooked food?”

“Mmmmm.” He smiles smugly, setting spray cleaner down with a thunk. “All by myself, with zero assistance.”

“And some of it’s not even crap.” She selects a carton of juice and scans it. “Did the help quit en masse this morning?”

“Get with the times.” He hands her a sack of apples. “That happened a month ago. The floors are weirdly sticky now, I may have to learn to mop.”

Veronica scans a can of Folger’s, picks up a box of Hamburger Helper. “Really, Logan? You’d voluntarily cook and consume THIS, instead of just buying takeout?”

“I’ve seen you do it,” he says with a wink. “How hard can it be?” Pulling a zipper pouch out of his moto-cross jacket pocket, he slides the tab open and removes a stack of paper. “Hold on, I think I’ve got a coupon for that one….ah, here we go. I actually brought TWO, and miracle of miracles, I’m allowed to use both.”

“Not on the same product.” Veronica grits her teeth as his Annoying Game Plan comes clear. “And it’s only saving you ten cents anyway, so why would you care?”

“Hey, nowhere on either coupon does it say I can’t get the discount and ALSO half off, see? Read the fine print, Veronica, it’s perfectly aboveboard. In fact, considering the store sale price on this item is $1.23, you actually owe ME twelve cents.”

Sighing loudly, Veronica accepts the proffered clipping, then five more for the subsequent bottle of detergent. “How can you possibly score a jug of Tide for thirty-seven cents in an aboveboard way?”

“Well, technically it’s seven jugs of Tide,” he says. “Hence the volume discount. The others are buried at the bottom of the cart, though.”

“Logan, you don’t even know how to use a washing machine!” She’s aware her face is flushing unbecomingly, but is too pissed off to care.

He shrugs, seemingly unconcerned, but with that glint in his eye that makes her ballistic. “And unless I buy detergent, how will I ever learn?”

“You are going WAY overboard with this stunt.” She scans in a barely-contained rage while he organizes and lines up coupons; he must have spent hours last night, clipping. “I don’t know what excuse you’ve cooked up for buying tampons--but all you’re proving is that you’re a jackass. Which I definitely already knew.”

“Look, I realize technically I don’t need them, being a guy,” he says, fake-reasonable. “But just check out this price…they’re practically FREE! How can I resist?”

“You’ve gone insane.” She scans several jars of pasta sauce and lasagna noodles. “It’s the only explanation. So if nutball’s the impression you were hoping to make, congratulations!”

“I am demonstrating my ability to be thrifty and responsible,” he says, self-righteous. “Since yesterday there seemed to be doubt coming from the ‘you’ direction. This is what you wanted, right? Mature behavior, when you gave me that ultimatum and then dumped me?”

“Well, I think it’s clever of you to woo your young lady by being practical,” the old woman in line behind him contributes, setting down her Star magazine to better converse. “Too many men in this day and age dress like rock stars and wear earrings, thinking that’s what girls like.”

“I can sincerely promise I will never do either,” Logan says, hand on heart, turning a SEE? look towards Veronica. She bares her teeth, very briefly, in a sneer.

“Of COURSE I want you to grow up!” V snaps, unwilling to be characterized as the heartless one by a stranger in support hose. “But only if you do it FOR yourself, not to antagonize me! If I thought that’s what you were up to, as opposed to some obnoxious stunt? Yes, this WOULD impress me. But as things stand, color me skeptical.”

“Good to know,” he says thoughtfully, studying her while she scans his coupons and begins to bag. Notes the total on the register and proceeds to count out exact change, which she puts away with a grimace.

“Would you care for carry-out service, sir?” she asks, extra-chirpily, handing him the receipt. He smiles.

“I would, in fact,” he says. “As long as it’s provided by you.”

“Sorry, no can do, I’d have to call someone.” She shakes her head. “They’re very concerned, here, with anything that holds up the line. Besides, you’re just shopping to make a point--all this stuff will probably end up in the garbage.”

“But don’t customers come first, Veronica?” He tries out ‘earnest’ face, along with the look from under his brow that’s his most potent weapon. “I’m your customer, and I messed up my wrist surfing, so I desperately NEED assistance. Beyond which, you appear to be the only employee available.”

Veronica knows this is a ploy; his wrist seemed fine when he was Vanna White-ing coupons. She’s positive if she goes into the parking lot with him, he’ll stare at her, and smile, and DAMN IT, she can’t COPE right now with the hormones that induces. “Bite me,” she mutters, turning to the old lady with a big, fake grin. “I know what you’re up to with those smoldering looks, and I have humored you enough.”

“Well the thing is, I’d love to,” he says, pocketing his receipt smugly, loading bagged groceries back into his cart. “Right at the join of your neck and shoulder, I remember how that makes you shiver. But I can’t possibly, because we broke up.”

Saluting her with two fingers, he rolls off into the dusk. Veronica covers her throat protectively with her palm, and starts ringing up HoHo’s and Metamucil.

“I know you’re mad, dear,” the old lady says, lifting her reading glasses by the chain to examine the tally, then dropping them, satisfied. “But if you could find it in your heart to…”

“VERONICA!” Eugene snaps, interrupting probably-spurious grandmotherly advice to advance on her in a quivering rage. “When I was walking past just now with a kiddie pool for the seasonal display, did I hear you tell a customer to…do something inappropriate? Because that kind of talk is against store policy. You’d better straighten up, or I’ll have no choice but to report you!”

“You know what?” Veronica cocks her head and narrows her eyes, coming to the abrupt conclusion that no paycheck is worth Eugene. “I have zero intention of straightening up, so how about I save you the trouble? I quit. There must be a job SOMEWHERE in town less stifling than this one.”

She yanks out the cash drawer, tops it with her red uniform vest, and hands both to Eugene, flashing her toothiest shark smile. Then she grabs her bag, and manages a perfect hair toss as she proceeds towards the exit.

“Call your boyfriend, dear!” the old lady shouts, bending sideways to peer around her flabbergasted former manager. “I’m sure he’d lend you money until you find more suitable employment. He seems like a saver!”

“You could not BE more wrong!” Veronica barks, madder now because her flounce-out’s ruined. “And FYI, he’s NOT my BOYFRIEND!”

She speeds home, stomping on the brake at lights like it’s Logan’s head—draws the hottest, bubbliest bath she can stand, and queues up her angry-music iPod playlist. Sinking into the tub with the remarkably un-battered Chandler, she reads and listens until the water cools, and her temper follows suit.

When she emerges, pajama’d, her dad is home, hauling the last of a batch of groceries in from the porch. She’s about to snark about him shopping after her shift, when she notices a telltale jug of Tide protruding over a sack’s rim.

“Hey sweetie,” he says, setting the bag with seven others on the counter and turning to lock the door. “Did you get a phone call or something, and forget to bring in the groceries? You know you can’t leave milk in the sun. Oh, hey, you got my favorite!” He removes a tub of Chunky Monkey, sets it to one side. “All right, we’re having lasagna and ice cream tonight, since you splurged on the good cheese. You mind helping me put our food away, then making a salad?”

Sighing, Veronica ties back her hair, and heads over to unload. Removes a Skist from the bottom of the nearest sack, and toasts Logan’s cunning as she drinks.


	3. Chapter Three

Veronica manages to work at Henshaw Home Furnishings for almost a week before Logan turns up, confidently inspecting bedroom sets like he has any idea what’s involved in mattress selection. She’s honestly not surprised to see him--Jessica Enbom was in here yesterday, and she knows how his gossip circle operates. But she IS surprised he seems serious enough about commerce to speak to another employee, when she lurks and watches instead of making her presence known.

Marcia, senior sales rep and a thirty-something divorcee, coyly leads him past three upscale suites before whipping out the most expensive catalog; he seems so receptive, Veronica’s curiosity gets the best of her. She approaches just as he’s asking about a dresser’s dimensions. “Logan. What a surprise.”

“Oh, hey Veronica.” He smiles and turns back to the page he’s studying. “Fancy meeting you here. I take it this is you latest bid to line the old pockets?”

“Indeed,” she says. “Thinking of redecorating your room at the Grand? Aren’t they supposed to handle furniture replacements?”

“Nah, this stuff’s for my house,” he says. “I COULD hire mom’s decorator to do the grunt work, but I’ve had my fill of leopard and red velvet.”

“Since when do you own a house?” she demands.

He sets down the catalog with well-acted exasperation to give her his full attention. “Well I don’t, technically,” he says. “But the emancipation paperwork finally went through. So my agent and I are viewing move-in ready one-stories tomorrow.”

“Since when are you emancipated?” She flashes Marcia a glare that OUGHT to send her scurrying… but Marcia’s in it for the commission and refuses to budge. “This is all moving so fast.”

“Aaron’s assets got frozen,” he says, levelly, “thanks to the Kanes’ civil suit. Subsequent to which Trina took funds allotted for my care, as my acting guardian, and invested them in a movie called ‘Arctic Death Match’--a stunt of which the court got wind. I’m confident it’ll be a huge surprise hit, so my criminal neglect won’t be in vain.”

“Ouch,” Veronica murmurs, not without sympathy. “I wish I could say that wasn’t in character.”

“Yeah.” He gives Marcia an embarrassed glance that DOES make her, reluctantly, retreat a few feet. “I’ve been living on the savings account left over from my age-ten film debut. Unfortunately, I was paid…not enough to cover expenses at the manse. Luckily, however, my mom left me her awful art collection—I’ve got a buyer standing by, once I’m legally allowed to sell. Those proceeds, along with her investments, should keep me in modest comfort until my trust fund kicks in. Hence my patronage of this discount establishment.”

“And your visit has nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that I work here,” Veronica says, dubious.

“Au contraire.” He smiles. “Where else could I find a salesperson as well versed in the styles I want to avoid?”

She tries, but fails, to suppress an answering grin. “I don’t know, Logan. You drive a yellow car and wear orange almost daily. Neon color schemes are generally sold at Ikea.”

“Upholstery selection can wait,” he says. “The most immediate necessity is a bed. Or at least a mattress and box spring, if what Marcia tells me is true. I’d like something large and comfortable, yet sturdy…endurance, remember? Plus I’d rather not be jostled every time my date gets up for midnight snacks.”

“Planning on company?” she asks, with a hint of sourness.

“I tend to be attracted to girls who eat,” he explains, unfazed. “And have an extreme fondness for drippy foods like ice cream, so we should probably discuss Scotchgard.”

She narrows her eyes at him, and he offers a bland smile in return. “Are you asking me to help you test mattresses?”

He grins, delighted, and she can’t help but respond in kind. “Come on,” she relents, beckoning with her head. “We’re not supposed to bounce on them, because the stands aren’t secure--but we can do the lying-down bit, to decide which you prefer.”

His eyebrows bob, but he follows her across the display without comment as Marcia stews. Leans against an armoire and folds his arms, while V gestures like a game-show host and starts her spiel.

“This,” she says, indicating the most lavish setup, “is our premium mattress; Marcia will likely knife me if I steal the commission. Tempur-pedic memory foam with an always-cool cover, and more box-spring coils than you can shake a stick at. Plus it’s adjustable with a handy remote.”

She lies down on the blissfully comfortable surface, spreading her arms out for balance, and a smile blooms slowly across his face. Shoving off the cabinet with his shoulder, he saunters forward. “Lilly was always bitching about how you hogged the bed. Some things never change, huh, Mars?”

“Lilly’s bed was so plush I wanted to wallow.” She folds one arm over her stomach and watches him crawl up the mattress like a big, sleek cat. He twists, flops onto his back alongside, and wiggles as if testing the give. “My mattress at home was an extra-firm twin.”

“Well THIS one, top-of-the-line though it may be, is just a tad TOO luxurious,” he says. “And by that I mean the foam might suck me under while I sleep, like Johnny Depp in that Freddy Kreuger movie.”

“But what a way to go.” She winks as he turns his amused face towards her. “I mean, except for the fountain of blood.”

“Wow, you REALLY like your pillow-tops.” He tucks an arm beneath his head. “Good to know.”

She gazes into his eyes, wondering what it would be like to sleep in Logan’s bed--to wake, all drowsy and satisfied, to the sight of him staring this way. Wishes he didn’t combine affection and charisma with issues and bad judgment into such a toxic stew. Because if he could just quit trying so hard to self-destruct…

Deep within her pocket, her phone chirps. She jolts at the buzzing sensation, distractedly pulls it out. The text reads, ‘WHERE’D U GO? DIDN’T U GET JOB AT WHEATSVILLE?’ and she snorts amusement, because Duncan’s five steps behind.

“Hot date?” Logan asks, gesturing with his chin.

Veronica types back ‘NOPE QUIT LAST WEEK,’ and pockets the cell. “Just Duncan,” she says. “I guess he visited the grocery store, only to find me long gone.”

“You’re still playing that game with him?” Logan arches a knowing brow, and she sits up, suddenly and uncomfortably aware they’re too close.

“He just wants to be friends, Logan.” She smooths the placket of her shirt. “I think it’s nice we’ve moved past our differences to a more…amiable place.”

“Uh-huh.” He sits up too, fiddling with the shirt cuff hanging open over his wrist. His tone is heavily sardonic. “I’m sure he’d agree. He wants everything back to ‘normal’ even more badly than you do. At least YOUR parents didn’t destroy evidence because they thought you’d murdered someone.”

“Logan, how is what he’s doing any different from what you’re doing?” She climbs off the bed, planting both palms on it as she faces him. “YOU lurk around my places of business because you’re lonely, too. He just wants to talk.”

“Then he should have returned my calls.” Logan springs up, a trace of bitterness in his tone. “Look, just locate the biggest mattress you’ve got, and one of those plain metal frames. I’ll write my card number down so you can charge it. And send a truck around, once I know where I live.”

She nods, she hopes briskly, since after all, this is a job and he’s a customer. Accepts the business card he hands her, Amex number scrawled on back, fighting an irrational sense of disappointment. Because SHE’S the one who dumped HIM, right? She’s taking charge of her life, making good choices, and refusing to associate with those who don’t do the same.

“Thanks for the business!” she says, trying for chipper; he studies her face, shutting his mouth on whatever quip he had planned. Inclines his head instead, and waves over his shoulder as he walks away.

XXXXX

Veronica doesn’t sleep well that night, despite her fat commission. She’s up every few hours, to get a drink, to use the bathroom, plagued with disturbing dreams she can’t recall. As a result (of that, and only that) she’s feeling blah the next day—her heart’s not even in competing with Marcia, who’s lapping her on sales. Duncan texts around noon (‘SO WHERE DO U WORK THEN?’) and she sends the address, but even the prospect of undemanding company fails to cheer her.

She’s in the accessories department, re-arranging knick-knacks that don’t need re-arranging, when a commotion in Den Decor draws her attention. There’s some giggling above the grind of shifting furniture, obscured by a gathering crowd—and, just filtering through the ruckus, the lilt of a familiar baritone quipping.

A quick shove through lurking onlookers confirms her suspicions. Her mood lifts weirdly as she watches Logan drag an end table across the floor, position it with a flourish next to a camel-colored couch. He pats it, as if telling it to stay, then wanders lackadaisically away to choose a lamp.

“He just showed up with a U-Haul.” Marcia materializes by her side, catalog in hand, to watch. “Apparently he made an offer on a house today, and he’s looking to fill it up.”

“And he has to group his purchases together first?” Veronica’s torn between knowledge of what he’s up to and the desire to laugh. Logan returns with something brass and ugly just in time to overhear.

“Well, I’m kind of a professional slacker.” He centers the lamp on the table and flops backwards on the couch like he already owns it. “So I need to create the optimal work environment.”

“Shouldn’t there be video games to complete the picture?” Veronica folds her arms, amusement gaining ground. “Maybe some flaming-hot Cheetos and a six-pack of beer?”

“In that bag.” He points at a duffel resting opposite, checks the watch he’s actually wearing, for once. “I’m just waiting for the delivery that completes this picture.”

As if on cue, the main door swings open, and two burly workmen struggle through, wheeling a massive flat-screen TV. Logan hops up to direct them, while to her left left Marcia dissolves in uncharacteristic laughter. Veronica shoots her a dirty look, then scrambles out of the way as the men approach.

“Right there.” Logan’s arm wave is reminiscent of a ringmaster’s. “I trust it’s already got the Xbox hooked up?”

“Yep, connected and ready to play,” the older, bearded deliveryman confirms. He hands Logan a clipboard, then the plug end of the power cord. “You want us to stick around until you’re done, load it onto your UHaul?”

“Nah, I have movers standing by.” Logan tucks a hundred under the pen and hands it back. “I just want to design the optimal setting for playing Call of Duty before buying—I’d like to beat the new scenarios before summer ends.”

“No way, you’ve got the next Call of Duty?” The younger mover, a red-haired skater bro, straightens, looking un-bored for the first time since appearing. “That’s not on sale ‘til October!”

“In my bag,” Logan says, with just a trace of smugness. “If you guys aren’t busy, you’re welcome to give it a shot.”

The guy shoots his elder a frankly pleading look; it’s met with a sigh. “I’m gonna head next door and grab a sandwich,” is the response. “But don’t forget, we got the media-room setup at three.”

He hands the electrical cord to Veronica as he passes, and she waves it at Logan like a nun’s ruler, advancing. “You can’t just park yourself here all day!” she informs him. “This is a place of business! We have customers!”

One of the girls in the watching crowd giggles. Logan emerges from his bag, triumphantly holding a cellophane-wrapped game disk. “Yeah but none of them are dropping fifty grand on furnishings, like, in all probability, myself. Make yourself useful and go plug that in, will you? Oh, and you’re welcome to join us after, if you want. This game has multiplayer function, and I brought a bag of those Milk Duds you like.”

“Ugh,” Veronica says, but she’s torn. For one thing, any customers present are too busy watching to need assistance. For another, she might be willing to storm off to teach Logan a lesson, but Marcia isn’t. And she’ll be damned if she’ll hand over the commission she’s CLEARLY owed.

It’d be nice to own a bed that doesn’t slosh when she rolls over. Plus she really is a fan of Milk Duds.

Veronica’s just about to yield to temptation when the bell over the door dings and Duncan wanders in. He’s carrying two lattes (though V thought she made it clear she avoids hot drinks in summer) and uses one to wave when he spots her.

“Hey!” He approaches at his usual amble, gaze fixed on the ruckus across the room. “I almost gave up, this place was REALLY hard to find.”

“What, because it’s outside the 09?” she teases (since the shop’s in a prominent strip mall, visible from a large road). Elbows him when he fails to respond. “Is one of those for me?”

“Oh, yeah, I stopped at Java…” his voice trails off as a familiar triumphant hoot carries over the crowd. “Is that LOGAN?”

Veronica rolls her eyes. “Yes, making a scene, naturally. He brought his own TV and rearranged the furniture so he could play Call of Duty all day. It’s just another lame attempt to bug the crap out of…”

“Call of DUTY?” Duncan hastily hands off the lattes; she winces as hot coffee splashes her wrist. Then he pushes through the onlookers in an actual rush, calling, “Dude! How did you even get this? I’ve had Dad’s secretary calling around all MONTH!”

“Oh, hey, man.” Logan feigns casual as Veronica follows in Duncan’s wake, but she’d swear she spots a malicious twinkle. “You know a true wheeler-dealer never reveals his sources. Grab a joystick and pull up a chair, though, we’ll bring you in on the next round. You can play Red Army or Brit like me--Brad here was feeling patriotic, and insisted on being the American.”

“Yankees go home.” Duncan actually turns his back on Veronica as he seats himself in the recliner, controller in hand. “I heard health points actually regenerate in this version, is that true?”

“Yep. Tells you when grenades are about to explode, too.” Logan winks at Veronica, and the twinkle becomes a grin as she glares. “Right now we’re playing search-and-destroy in Normandy. If it wasn’t for Brad, I’d be getting my ass kicked.”

“Wow, the graphics are AMAZING,” Duncan marvels, then jerks back, startled, as Veronica slaps the drinks down on the coffee table.

“Just for your information,” she tells him, in a much louder tone than she ought to employ, “I LOATHE both hot vanilla lattes and being ignored. And as for YOU,” she turns to point at Logan, who’s picked up one of the coffees and is blandly sipping, “I know exactly what you’re doing, and you’ve made your point. You can have Duncan in the divorce with my blessings.”

“Veronica…” Duncan tries, as she storms past him. Then, sounding puzzled, “What is her deal?” She can imagine Logan, behind her, shrugging while he smirks; the image makes her blood boil, so she heads for the break room to calm down.

As she stalks past Marcia, she notes her co-worker’s on the phone, whispering things like, “Veronica,” and “bad attitude,” in a covert, self-righteous way. So she’s not surprised when, half an hour after Logan and Duncan leave for a bonfire (fences apparently mended), the regional manager calls to give V the boot.

Probably, Marcia expected V to skulk away, chastened, leaving Logan’s commission behind. But if that bitch wanted the upper hand, she shouldn’t have made long-distance calls from the break-room phone. Or had Sheila clock her in every time she took a long lunch.

Healthy final check in hand, Veronica arrives home just as night is falling to find a lamp on her porch. Not the ugly brass kind Logan bought himself, thank GOD; this one’s pale green glass with a pleasing round shape and a tan-on-cream, floral-printed shade.

She carries it inside and sets it on the end table where the broken one lived, smiling at her father over his newspaper as she bends to insert the plug. “You shouldn’t read in the dark,” she chides as she straightens, patting Backup. “You’ll need bifocals before you hit fifty.”

“Aw, but glasses will make me look smart.” He folds the sports section down to study her. “That’s a nice lamp, honey. Did you buy it at the store with your discount?”

“Mmmm.” Veronica traces a finger along the base before flipping the switch--the glass is smooth and warm to the touch. “It just never felt right, leaving this space empty.”


	4. Chapter Four

In retrospect, Veronica decides, the furniture store gig, while lucrative, was overly political. Not that politics are BAD, per se—when you’re on the winning side, the way the Fab Four were at school, they’re a tool to maintain the status quo. But when it’s necessary to claw towards commissions over the backs of co-workers, politics can be a pain in the ass.

Her new job, as a personal shopper at the luxury department store Ciao, is a much better fit; really, she’s surprised she didn’t apply sooner. She followed Logan, Lilly and Duncan through these gold-tiled aisles for years, coveting expensive goods in glass cases and covertly observing the staff. Her memories of store layout, combined with a subsequent loss of faith in human nature, make her uniquely suited to sell to shitty-but-rich customers. And a little discreet name-dropping was all it took to close the deal.

The other two personal shoppers are 09’ers in their twenties…old enough not to care about Veronica’s reputation, rich enough to be in this job for early access to fashions. Neither likes to work. Ergo, everyone gets along great for the first week, until Veronica opens the appointment book one morning and sees Logan’s name.

“Is this a mistake?” she blurts to no one in particular, checking her watch. Because he’s scheduled to arrive ten minutes hence; and as far as she can tell, Whitney’s spent all morning online-shopping, while Angela smokes outside the perfume department. “And if not, why didn’t anyone tell me Logan Echolls booked an hour? I’ve spent all morning hunting down silk ties in a specific shade of purple, and he’ll want to try on EVERY available option. In multiple sizes.”

“Oh, he’s my client,” Whitney, a dramatically-browed brunette who looks to V like a praying mantis, gives a dismissive hand wave. “Got my number from my brother a while back, said he wants a whole new look. Normally I prefer to work for women, because what good do orders from men’s lines do my wardrobe? But he’s too adorable for words, so I made an exception.”

She winks and resumes unauthorized use of the computer, immaculate fuchsia nails clacking. Veronica contains an eye roll. “You know Logan’s only turning up to annoy me, right? He hangs around at every job I get, smirking and stirring shit-- seems to have made it his summer ritual.”

Whitney gives Veronica a brief once-over, as if to silently ask, “Why?” She’s less terrible than Madison Sinclair, though, or maybe less interested in Veronica’s life, so she only shrugs. “Rack’s by the dressing room with a name tag,” she says. “If you want to fetch and carry for him, feel free--I’m waiting on the Prada fall shoe debut anyway. Just be sure to tell him Whit sends kisses.”

Veronica’s teeth clench, but she swallows back a retort. Heads to the chandeliered, cream-and-gold fitting area, where sure enough, clothes are parked by the three-way mirror. Tugging aside the dust cover reveals a neon array of Timberlake-gear, which couldn’t be less New Look for Logan if sequined. Sighs, because seriously, how hard can choosing decent guy-outfits be?

Bustling around the store at a top-speed power-walk, Veronica collects the kind of simple, fitted clothing fashionable adults wear, plus a stack of expensive jackets to indulge his coat fetish. She’s just smoothed the last butter-soft motocross-cut onto the now-packed rail (hoping the commission will replace her lost iPod) when a whistling Logan rounds the corner.

“Veronica!” He seems pleased, but so puzzled she wipes an abruptly-sweating palm on her pencil skirt. “Are those…my clothes you’re fondling?”

“Um, YEAH.” She goes on offense, because how dare he act like this meeting wasn’t an ambush? “You made a stylist appointment?”

“With Whitney BARRINGTON,” he shoots back, comprehension washing over his features. Raises his hand, three fingers extended, like the most trustworthy of Eagle Scouts. “Because she tracks emerging fashions like I track video game release dates. I had no clue you even worked here, I do solemnly swear.”

“Now why do I find that hard to believe?” she taps her lower lip in mock-puzzlement. “Maybe because this is the FOURTH summer job you’ve decided to disrupt?”

“Hey, only the coffee shop visits were planned.” He makes a flicking gesture. “And I gave up that endeavor eventually, once I realized it was Duncan’s milk you wanted to froth. Although in my likely-unpalatable opinion, you deserve better than to be his Plan B--so fingers crossed you actually meant it when you kicked him to the curb.”

She arches a brow, wondering what the ‘Plan B’ hint’s about, and he runs embarrassed hands through his hair. “I’m serious! I mean, I had to return your books at Wheatsville, and I MAY have gotten a little piqued when you insulted my grocery-store prowess. Then I figured I owed you a commission on the furniture, since I’m partly to blame for your constant job-hopping. But you KNOW this is the only store that carries shirts soft enough for me--whereas you’ve never once tried on so much as an earring here. Plus no one else in town sells my aftershave. I thought I got Ciao in the divorce, no question.”

Veronica looks guiltily away, because he’s right. And also she may have spent a MINISCULE amount of time in men’s cologne this morning, sniffing. But all she says is, “I didn’t shop here because I couldn’t afford $300 jeans. Which is exactly why I need this job—the commissions are fantastic.”

“Well I’m not going elsewhere.” He folds his arms. “Whitney said she found tons of stuff, I’ve got to make sure it fits. And this is the only weekday the store’s open I don’t have class.”

“Fine,” Veronica snaps. “Then you’re stuck with me as an assistant. Whitney’s hunting limited-edition boots, and Angela’s been MIA since ten a.m.”

“Fine,” he retorts, running a finger along the items on the rack. “You can start by matching up outfits and handing them under the door…except for this jacket, I want to try it on now. And this one.”

“You’re interested in a capsule wardrobe that coordinates,” she says, flat. “YOU.”

“Yes, Veronica, it’s called a fresh start.” Logan rounds on her, hands on hips. He’s had a haircut since last week, she notices, and his grey t-shirt is actually clean. “I don’t need to wear baggy, obnoxious rack leftovers to keep Aaron from seeing me as a threat anymore; he’s in maximum security now, getting his salad tossed. I’d like clothes that look decent for a change, call me vain if you will. And I’m somehow sure you will.”

“Me? Criticize?” She shakes her head, deftly extracting the jeans and sweater she likes best. “You and your black Amex can have whatever gear your heart desires—it’s not like you don’t own enough neon to last three lifetimes. But I’d be remiss not to hint; stay away from baby blue and pin-striped Oxfords, or people might start confusing you with Duncan.”

“If that happens,” he grabs the items from her hands and tugs open the dressing room, “I have bigger problems than my wardrobe.”

“Right,” she says, as the door firmly shuts. “Pass those cargo pants you’re wearing under the door, I’ll run outside and burn them. And I’m warning you now--my opinion, when requested, will always be, ‘You look fantastic!’”

“If you say it in that throaty purring voice,” he calls, accompanied by the sound of clinking hangars. “You know, the one you use…sometimes? I promise I won’t mind.”

“Ugh.” Veronica presses a smile from her lips, and starts arranging looks.

She’s separating day and evening outfits when he emerges, to better inspect his black-clad image in the mirror. She swallows, clutching an armful of fabric. Because while she used to swim with him all the time, and more recently, has felt his new muscles with her fingertips? She failed to appreciate, until this moment, just how much his body has changed. He’s even worked out enough, apparently, to create an ass from thin air. And if that’s not a miracle for the modern age, it SHOULD be.

“You look fantastic,” she murmurs in the fakest-possible sultry voice, and he grins at her in the mirror like the devil, tempting.

“I do, don’t I?” He turns sideways, analyzing fit. “Whitney knows her stuff. And I’m sure you’re an adequate stylist, too, even if you HAVE worn high-water plaid pants with boots.”

She makes a face behind his back as he sidles past her into the dressing room, automatically catches the clothes he throws over the door. “Keeping those,” he calls as she turns the sweater right-side out, trying not to picture him shirtless. Emerges shortly in a navy button-down and flat-front slacks, casually rolling a sleeve.

Pressing a palm discreetly to her neck, because suddenly it’s hot in here, V nods approval. His eyes laugh at her as he passes. “What? So wrong it’s right?”

“No, you look nice, but…” she shrugs. “Maybe a size bigger, unless you WANT to be pawed by every woman you meet?”

“The human body is natural, Veronica,” he says, in a chiding tone, but with a lurking smile. “Quit being so uptight.”

“YOU,” she begins, and he turns abruptly to face her, standing just the tiniest bit too close. She thinks about backing up so she doesn’t actually catch on fire, but wars aren’t won by giving ground.

“Me what?” he demands, somehow making the challenge an invitation. “I’m just trying on clothes over here. You can always switch places with Whitney if my desire to dress better bothers you.”

She narrows her eyes; he widens his in one-hundred-percent-faux innocence. “Don’t want to lose the commission?” he asks, softly. “Or is it maybe that even spoiled-and-unambitious bad boys have a few strong points?”

“Are you really trying to make a fresh start?” she asks instead of letting him bait her, voice so quiet only he can hear. Her gaze locks with his, and the intensity of his focus makes her heart beat fast. “Is that what all these purchases…the house, the clothes, the furniture…are seriously about?”

“Don’t you think it’s time?” The gentleness of his tone is jarring. She manages a nod, opens her mouth to reply, and then Angela rounds the corner, stilettos clicking.

“Hey Veronica, you back here?” she calls, examining her manicure for invisible flaws. She’s a tall, lackadaisical blonde who books maybe one client a month, and chews Nicorette instead of eating. “Duncan Kane’s up front with a sandwich and coke for you. Scoot out there quick or you’ll miss him.”

“Are you serious?” Veronica’s voice rises an octave, but she can’t break free of Logan’s gaze. “After I yelled at him last week? Is he delusional?”

Logan shrugs, face going opaque, and she says, “Ask him to leave them at the register, would you? I’m with a client.”

“I can SEE that.” Angela assesses all the Logan-ness on display with a slow, appreciative once-over. “Take your time. Duncan’s too young for me, but if you’re not interested in his free lunch, I never mind flirting.”

“Have at him,” Veronica says, and is it her imagination, or does Logan relax a tad? “But here’s a hint…be cartoonishly obvious. He’s epically bad at reading people, subtle won’t register.”

Angela snorts, checks out Logan one more time, and sashays off. He says, “You, on the other hand, are more observant than I thought.”

“Plan B?” She somehow escapes the tractor beam of his gaze and spins away. Strokes a palm over the black velvet blazer hanging across her arm. “Did that mean what I’m guessing? Is he still dating Meg?”

“Maybe?” she hears a rustle behind her, possibly him shrugging. He reaches over her shoulder to tug the blazer out of her grasp. “They were an item as of June; and the other day when we hung out she called several times. If he is single, it wasn’t…a clean break, like ours. Could be he even ditched Meg without telling her—that’s his established MO.”

“Lucky thing I’m not interested, then.” Veronica turns resolutely, and presses her lips together to contain an exclamation. Because JESUS Logan looks good in a sport coat, and that velvet over muscles begs to be petted.

“Yeah,” he says, watching her in the mirror. His expressive face shows more sympathy than she’d like, as well as a hint of sadness. “Lucky.” He looks down at his sleeve, brushing off invisible dust, then back up. “I like this, you can add it to the pile. In fact, I’m pretty sure you and Whitney nailed both size and style, so let’s ring the whole batch up and bag it. I’ll swing by the coffee shop on the ground floor, and come back to collect in fifteen.”

He returns to the dressing room, pops an arm out to hand her his Amex. Shuts the door in her face while she wonders what the hell just happened, and promptly drapes the blazer over the top.

Veronica collects the clothes he sheds and rolls the rack out to the register. Whitney’s still poised to order shoes with single-minded zeal, and Angela, naturally, is missing. Carefully, V folds and de-tags, trying not to blanch as the total price climbs. With this commission, she can buy an iPod plus a whole new computer.

She’s rung in the last shirt, and is reaching for tissue to cover the fifth bag’s contents, when a fuchsia-clawed hand reaches past her. Deftly, Whitney types her own sales code, hits total, and winds up the receipt as it prints with patent unconcern.

“What the hell?” Veronica demands, hands on hips, as Whitney rips paper with a snick. “I waited on him, and chose every one of his purchases. Ipso facto, the proceeds are mine.”

“I said you could fetch and carry,” Whitney informs her, with a cool dismissiveness that makes V’s teeth itch. “According to Angela you have the hots for the guy, so I was doing you a FAVOR. But I’ve been working this sale all week and I’ve already spent the commission; no WAY are you walking in bourgeois-bossy and pinching a promising client. Do you have a CLUE how much he can boost my rep, just by looking the way he does in clothes I picked? I could end up WORKING for Prada, and get next season’s boots MONTHS earlier!”

“Do you really think he’ll do you favors if you mess with me?” Veronica rebuts, faux-sweetly. “Logan Echolls, who ranks loyalty above HAIR GEL?”

She expects this question to give Whitney pause, but instead the girl/insect laughs, her expression dripping condescension. “Of course! Logan knows how the game’s played, or he wouldn’t have come out on top after his dad’s…contretemps. But if you think I’m being UNFAIR, we can take the issue upstairs to Brock. He and my dad have been country-club golf buddies for-EVER, I’m confident he’ll see things my way.”

Veronica bares her teeth in her least-nice smile, debating which instrument of Whitney’s destruction would feel most satisfying to wield. Before she can decide, someone speaks behind them in baritone sotto-voce.  “I wouldn’t bet your credit at Tiffany’s on me playing nice.”

Both girls spin as Logan extracts his wallet, sticking the retrieved Amex between his teeth. He takes his time putting the card away, smirks at Whitney as he hefts his bags. “Ronica’s been one of my best friends since junior high, so I can state with authority that she usually plays fair. I will therefore offer a deal; she gets what she wants, I’ll make sure you’re flattered within earshot of Rachel Zoe. If she doesn’t—at any point during her tenure of employment—I’ll tell Connor Larkin and his entourage all your Louboutins are Taiwanese knockoffs. In strictest confidence, of course.”

“You wouldn’t!” Whitney gapes, appalled. He returns a stare so uncompromising even Veronica’s impressed, and Whitney, no dummy, switches tactics. “Can you REALLY put in a good word with Rachel?”

“She’s got an appointment with my sister on Friday.” Logan picks up a coffee from the counter and sips. Gestures with his eyes at an extra-large Frappucino; Veronica smiles, because he even remembered cinnamon sprinkles. “Apparently the role of Daughter Determined to Prove Dad’s Innocence requires a much more tailored wardrobe.”

Whitney giggles like this comment is hysterical, and Logan fake-laughs right back. Salutes Veronica with his beverage and turns to walk off, calling behind him, “Text me later and let me know the verdict, V. I promise I won’t wait three days to read, like some people we know. Or mistake you reaching out for anything but just-friends boredom.”

Savoring her coffee, she watches him and his very nice new ass go. Whitney huffs a disgusted, “Men!” and picks up a calculator. “Your commission is $838.62, re-do my math if you don’t believe me. I’ll write you a check since I’ve already totaled out.”

“Perfect.” V pokes a finger into the greasy paper bag by the register. Unwraps the sandwich inside—turkey on white with mayonnaise—and tosses it in the garbage uneaten. “And let me just say…I SO look forward to our sure-to-be-profitable future shifts.”

Whitney grimaces, gold pen already flashing within a pink leather checkbook. Veronica watches, and wonders if August might not be a complete loss after all.


	5. Chapter Five

Veronica sits in the lifeguard tower at Cape Crescent, red-swimsuit-clad and determinedly ponytailed. Her search-and-rescue gear’s neatly arrayed before her, and she’s putting her new binoculars to good use; but she’s scanning the parking lot instead of the water, while mentally recapping recent events.

Logan’s been a pal, since the day he turned up with her favorite coffee and saved her job—he replies pithily to all texts and shows sympathy when her day sucks. But he’s also been elusive; ‘too busy’ to make concrete plans, let alone ‘accidentally’ appear at her place of employment. She’s not sure how to account for the change in availability, since for the last few weeks he’s had nothing BUT time…she doesn’t like it, though, that’s certain. Even when Logan was dating Lilly, even when he hated V’s guts, he was always, reliably…around.

Of course, three days ago she got fired from Ciao for creating a ‘hostile work environment’, after Whitney got so enraged about splitting commissions she tried to run Veronica over with her Jag. And two days ago, Casey Gant threw a ‘last month of summer’ kegger, which resulted in a police raid and several stomachs pumped (the next morning, the beach was deserted). But today the weather’s mild and the waves are pristine. If Logan DOESN’T appear, board in hand, she’s going to suspect avoidance.

Not that she CARES where he goes or what he does—he can take his hot new body on any summer adventure he likes. She’s just perched up here trying to earn an honest living. But really, how can the 09’ers consider themselves surfers when their practice regimen is so slipshod? It’s false advertising, is what it is, and someone needs to bring them down a peg.

She’s distracted from her lookout by yelling; spinning back towards the beach, she blows her whistle at two kids throwing punches over a sand castle. When she re-focuses on the lot, the XTerra’s newly-parked, and Logan, Dick and Bodie are piling out, trailing a massive cloud of smoke. Logan waves the fumes away, seeming irritated; Bodie giggles and Dick shoves as they collect surfboards from the roof rack. Frowningly surveying the water, Logan strips off his shirt, then rummages in the cargo bay for a wetsuit. Veronica decides if the muscles in his back aren’t proof of a benevolent god, someone’s defined religion wrong.

They trudge towards the water through the tide-tossed sand, taking their sweet time, then paddle in the direction of post-dawn waves; these break just at the sight line in perfect, foamy curls. Veronica waits until they’ve almost reached the best spot to pop up and ride, before blowing her whistle and shouting into the bullhorn, “TOO FAR!”

Like seals bobbing over the surface, the three of them turn in unison towards the tower; thanks to binoculars she has a good view of Logan, water-mussed and confused. Dick, seated on his board, puts hands on hips, no doubt saying something snide; after a brief confab, they apparently decide the warning is bullshit, and line up in formation for waves. At which point Veronica blows the whistle a second time, and intones, “DON’T MAKE ME COME OUT THERE AFTER YOU.”

She can’t hear them cursing from her perch, but the exasperation they show is gratifying. Dick, apparently sent as emissary, hauls ass back; Veronica smiles, because finally, the irritation of the past few days has found an outlet.

Planting his board nose-up in the sand, Dick storms towards the tower, wet blonde spikes of hair sticking out in a disc like daisy petals. “What the hell is your prob…” he starts, then halts and essays a massive eye-roll. “Oh, I get it now—Veronica Mars. What’s got your knickers in a twist THIS time, Ronster? Duncan’s beef bologna not as meaty as advertised?”

“You were too far out,” she calls down sweetly, adding just a hint of poison edge. “You don’t want to get banned from the beach for disobeying the lifeguard, do you, Dick?”

She notes Bodie and Logan paddling again, and blows the whistle twice, sharply. Logan makes a ‘What?’ gesture, so she bullhorns, “BACK TO THE BEACH”, and reluctantly, they begin their return.

“I’ll tell you what this is,” Dick blusters, as they reach the sand, and begin the hike to the tower, “this is abuse of power! We’re, like, just innocently hanging, catching some waves, being bros, and you’re stirring shit ‘cause someone pissed in your cornflakes.”

“Whereas every day at high school, you use your power wisely?” She smiles, faux-innocent, while Logan does a palms-up WTF shrug at Dick, and Dick points towards Veronica in response. No slouch compared to his destined-to-underachieve friends, Logan quickly scopes the situation; his expression, once he’s close enough for her to see without binoculars, seems resigned more than angry.

“What’s the problem, here, officer?” he demands, taking the lead, yanking the tab at the neck of his wetsuit open. “Didn’t you and I sign a peace treaty? I blackmailed your co-worker into saving your job, as I recall--I even bought you cinnamon sprinkles—yet suddenly you’re the Ocean Police? What offense against common decency have I committed this time? And do you accept bribes in lieu of punishment?”

“Nice try.” She climbs down from the tower to get in his face, because she’s spoiling for a fight and he seems willing to oblige. “You’ve done nothing objectionable at all, Logan, except send insultingly-short responses to texts you openly solicited. And of course, you paddled WAY TOO FAR OUT while surfing. As to who made me Ocean Police, that would be my boss at the Cape Crescent Lifeguard Association. You can take your obvious authority issues up with him, he’s in the HQ over by the parking lot. Probably listening to the Offspring and doodling band flyers, if this morning’s activities are any indication.”

“Lifeguards are COPS?” Bodie whispers to Dick, poorly controlling his panicked volume. “They can’t ARREST us, can they?”

“Shut it, dude, you’re so fucking high you don’t even know what’s happening,” Dick replies. “Which is just Ron-Ron tearing Logan a new one, as usual. She’s like a shark—she’s gotta chew on something every once in a while or she grows too many teeth.”

“Let me get this straight.” Logan sends a quelling glance towards the peanut gallery. “You’re pissed I’m giving you space, even though you dumped me a month ago, and admitted last week by inference that you’re still into Duncan?”

“I admitted no such thing,” she snaps. “I threw his stupid sandwich in the GARBAGE! And if you’re going to wander around this beach like the Kings of Summer acting as if certain RULES don’t MATTER, then SOMEONE needs to put you in your PLACE.”

She blows her whistle in his face to punctuate. He yanks it off her neck like the cord is made of tissue and tosses it carelessly down the beach.

“You’re paying for that,” she hisses, while behind him, Bodie giggles. “And you just LITTERED!”

“What do you want from me, Veronica?” he demands, stepping closer to loom more effectively, the scents of sweat and salt lingering on his damp skin. “I’m never going to be some Duncan-esque Prince Charming, and I won’t meet anyone’s definition of normal. The best I can manage is to not interfere with your ambition…and maybe try, when possible, to improve as a person. But right now it seems like you’re picking a fight, instead of being pleased with my decision to let you outgrow me--and you KNOW fighting with you gets me excited. What, exactly, am I supposed to think is happening here? Are you making a scene to get my attention?”

“Ha, as IF,” she snaps, frustrated. “Don’t flatter yourself. I just think it’s ironic that you went on and on about how you were in love with me at the beginning of the summer, yet you wouldn’t change your behavior when it mattered, not one little bit. But then ten minutes after Duncan brings me a sandwich you’re all, “Enh, OVER YOU. And by the way, I fixed all the problems that led to our break-up in the first place because I’m just so freaking PERVERSE!”

“But you don’t want ANYTHING from me?” He scoffs, openly, so up in her body space now they’re literally nose-to-nose. “Even though, apparently, I’ve recently become a catch? Not one single course of action has crossed your mind by which we might somehow, conceivably, mend fences?”

She stares at him; his face is two inches from hers, his breath hot on her cheek. She’s panting, and also her nipples are hard, but she’ll be damned if she’s admitting squat.

“You could try respecting the rules of the beach,” she says, and her voice comes out huskier than she intends. She clears her throat.

He smirks, the smirk he used to adopt right before he zinged her. Leans even closer, mouth beside her ear. “And what exactly is your plan for making me obey? You probably can’t even swim out to those waves I want to ride. Your little teeny arms would turn to spaghetti halfway.”

With that statement, he lopes off, grabbing his board mid-gazelle-sprint and hurling himself into the sea. Cackling and high-fiving, his friends follow, and Veronica climbs back into the tower faster than she previously thought possible.

By the time she locates the bullhorn and switches it on, he’s reached the wave and is paddling up the crest; he pops up as she brings the mouthpiece to her lips. And really, it’s a thing of beauty to watch Logan surf, so she pauses just long enough to appreciate the visual before shouting, “GET BACK HERE NOW, OR ALL THREE OF YOU ARE BANNED!”

Logan clearly hears, despite the showboating. He makes a dramatic, ‘Who, me?’ gesture, which keeps him from noticing a chunk of driftwood. The resulting collision knocks him sideways, and he’s shoved under as his wave breaks atop.

“Shit!” Veronica mutters, because endangering his SAFETY was never part of the program. She grabs her red plastic float, leaps from the platform, and goes sprinting for the water like that one character in Baywatch who could actually swim.

The ocean’s cold, and it turns out, Logan’s right. She passed her rescue test, mostly because, she suspects, the guy doing interviews had a thing for blondes. But the water’s choppy, the waves are big, and making headway towards the spot where his board floats, wind-tossed, tests her limited reserves of skill.

When she reaches it, though, he’s sprawled atop, limp and unmoving with his legs dangling off the edge. Arranging him carefully, she climbs on behind, then paddles them out of danger as fast as she can.

As soon as she touches bottom she unbuckles his tether, hauls his lanky form onto the sand. A crowd gathers, and Dick and Bodie approach to help; Bodie mutters, “I don’t get it, he’s a badass swimmer,” while Veronica tilts Logan’s head sideways. Feels for, and finds, a pulse.

“Oh, God, please be OK,” she whispers, leaning down to blow breath into his lungs, then straddling his waist to do chest compressions. “Who’s going to bitch at me all day and keep me caffeinated, if you die in some idiotic accident due to an excess of ego?”

She leans in again for recussitation, and as their lips connect, his eyes open. Hers go wide, because was he freaking FAKING? Then he tilts his chin up to kiss her, and her brain completely blanks.

His mouth is soft beneath hers, gentle but devastatingly thorough—the rubbery suit against her skin is permeated already with his heat. His hands land on her shoulders, from whence one slips up to tangle in her hair. The other slides down, all the way to her ass, and grips.

Her body goes boneless and hot. This is possibly the best kiss in the history of kisses; Logan’s basically devouring her, making it clear the careful distance and blasé reply-texts were pretense. She devours him right back with single-minded focus, because three weeks of not touching this guy were two-and-two-thirds too many.

Their embrace lasts an eternity and also a second; then she’s hauled back by a grip on her upper arm as a voice shouts, “What are you DOING?”

Veronica blinks, trying to focus on things that aren’t Logan. The hazy impression that her boss Luis is yelling solidifies. The guy pulls her upright, his dimpled, sun-bleached affability dimmed by a scowl, and he tosses down an emergency kit before continuing. “You don’t fraternize on the job, Mars, Jesus! What if someone was genuinely drowning just now, and you were too busy making out with this asshole to notice? And you…” he turns to Logan, preventing interference with a quelling hand. “You’re going to the hospital in the ambulance I just called, for which you will pay all fees. I’m not getting busted down to beach clean-up so you can score with cute blondes, pal.”

He lets go to direct the arriving EMS crew; jerks a thumb at his assistant, then the tower. “Brad, get up there before some kid steps on a jellyfish. Veronica, in case you didn’t guess, you’re fired.” Shaking his head, he watches as emergency techs bundle off a protesting Logan, then gestures for Veronica to precede him to the lockers. “Jesus, David Hasselhoff is the worst thing to happen to lifeguarding in California. Everyone who applies these days thinks it’s nothing but running in slow motion and inappropriate sexy times.”

Veronica gathers up her stuff but doesn’t bother to change—just brushes absently at the sand crusting her legs as she hikes ignominiously towards her car. Scowls as she notices Dick seated on Logan’s back bumper; nearby, Bodie’s borrowed a random beachgoer’s cell.

She tries to ignore them, but Dick’s got other plans. “Does this mean we have to play nice again?” he calls as she passes, voiced pitched to be unmissable.

“In your dreams.” V unlocks her car with an annoyed snick. “I’d say get lost, but I’m guessing you can’t. What’s wrong, did Logan disappear with the keys?”

Bodie snickers, putting a hand over the receiver. “She’s totally, like, psychic, dude.”

“Shut it and call us a cab, Towelie, if you can even remember what beach this is.” Dick folds his arms as V tosses her bag in the back seat. “You’d better not crush his heart again, Ronnie. He was just starting to act semi-normal, for the first time all summer.”

“The only thing I plan to crush,” she says, seating herself behind the wheel, “is you, if you lead him back to a life of crime. Now enjoy your long wait in the hot sun, I’ve got places to be. Toodles!”

All the way home, Veronica thinks about the kiss--how good it felt to be in Logan’s arms, though ending up there in no way suits her plans. She assumed, when she broke up with her favorite psychotic jackass, that she was solving a problem…cleaning up a loose end left dangling during the messy Year Post-Lilly. But she’s starting to realize he’s more of a tie that binds…and that Logan may not be the type a girl can sweep under the rug.

He’s frustrating, he’s often infuriating, but…that KISS. His thumb stroked the sensitive hollow at the base of her spine, tucking her against his groin, spreading shivers. His tongue tangled with hers like she was the ripest and most delicious fruit he’d ever tasted….

That kiss was worth a considerable amount of angst, as was the hungry look in his eyes when it ended. She can only imagine what kind of basket case she’ll be if he decides to kiss her AGAIN.

Her dad’s in the parking lot when she reaches the Sunset Cliffs, unlocking his sensible car, wearing his sensible windbreaker, seeming world-weary the way he always does when rent’s due. He smiles upon spotting her, though the expression’s tinged with worry. “Back so soon? Haven’t you only been at your new job a few hours?”

“Long story.” She pauses to peck his cheek, then brush off sand she’s deposited on his shirt. “We’ll talk later. I’m fine, but right now I need a bath, followed maybe by a nap.”

“All right, honey, but call if you need me,” he says, waiting for her nod before going about his business. She trudges up to the apartment as he drives away, shoving off an enthusiastic Backup after one perfunctory pat.

The shower, miraculously, runs hot, maybe because it’s early-afternoon and everyone’s at work. Veronica locks the bathroom door and lets the room cloud up with steam. Then she climbs beneath the spray, grabs the soap, and thinks about Logan’s kisses a whole lot more.


End file.
